


Coke Lines and Candy

by scorpion_eating



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Cyborgs, Dirty Talk, Eventual Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Multiple Orgasms, Original Character(s), Overstimulation, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28810932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpion_eating/pseuds/scorpion_eating
Summary: You're new to Night City, and who's a better client than Royce and his cyber junkies?- This story follows a female reader as she navigates her way through Night City as a new solo, oh, also she gets fucked a lot.
Relationships: Dum Dum/Reader (Cyberpunk 2077), Original Character(s)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Coke Lines and Candy

You press yourself flush against the wall, the stench of gunpowder and burnt plastic fills the air. The night is young - it always is in the Combat Zone. Even more so in Night City - so you’ve come to learn in your brief time here.

“Red done? Can’t stand being in this fucking place any longer.” The guard just to your left, only blocked by a thin pillar, speaks. He’s antsy and you don’t need to look at him to know that. You listen half-heartedly to him and the other guard chatter, crouching down slowly, careful to keep silent. Your fingers meet the familiar metal of your gun, your baby. You grip it, it’s a pretty little pistol - High power pulse pistol with two huge barrels, one for normal ammunition and the other for condensed laser shots (lethal and non-lethal). With a gentle flick of where the safety of a gun should be, you could switch between modes. Your baby is a dark electric blue, with a small scope. Fully automated and biometrically locked, an absolute beauty that filled your weapon junkie heart with joy. But you digress. 

A blink of your eyelids switches your vision from image enhancement to Low Lite. Your pitch dark surroundings are suddenly clear, allowing you to see the little soda can in front of you. You give it a lingering glance, trying to formulate a plan in your head.

Go in, get the Pepper Zepper (an ugly gun that packs a hell of a punch) and leave. Simple.

Except this wasn’t the empty warehouse in Royce’s information, instead it was a run down building filled with Militech guards. You scan the area, with your new acquired sight, looking for things you may have missed. 

All is well, except for the faint trail of blood leading from the front of the warehouse to behind the corner. 

Fucking hell, Royce only paid you for extraction of the weapon, not to fight organisation fodder. A scowl graces your lips, Royce was probably not going to pay extra even if you really did have to fight them. You think back briefly to your encounter with him, you were new to this city but even you knew he was being a real dick contacting you without a fixer.

Gripping your baby tight, you make your way round the corner, there had to be a fuse box. Maybe if you were lucky, these idiots would leave a fucking window wide open. 

Once far enough, you get up, knees aching, gaze running over the towering brick wall. A huge, grey box, hanging off the wall by what seemed like sheer willpower caught your gaze. Bingo. 

With a heavy tug, the door swings open but what greets you is worse than getting shot in the head by one of those corporate dogs out front. 

You’re greeted with a sea of wires; blue, black, green, white - every colour you could imagine in wire form thrown over one another. A couple wires hung loose, sparking occasionally. 

You’d have an easier time going in guns blazing and getting out alive than trying to plug the power fuse from this monstrosity. With a curt sigh, you step back and round the building again, all that you’re met with is locked windows and by the time you’re at the other side of the building, you're given the pleasure of finding out where that blood trail led to. A gang member lies on the dirt, sticky blood pooling around his shirt. Your face curls into disgust, the stench of death is picking up on this dude. You step back, thinking over your options. 

In guns blazing? Have a shot at Pandora’s box over at the other side? Leave and get shot by Royce back at their hideout? 

Guns blazing it was. 

You switch from Low Lite to Infrared. Immediately you’re greeted with the heat signatures of five agents. Two out front, one patrolling inside and another two up at (what you assumed was) the control room. Okay, five people, that’s fine.

They probably expected to be in and out in less than an hour, hence the laughably small number of agents. You bring your baby up to your lips, kissing her nuzzle. 

“Let’s not bomb this,” you tell yourself. You step over the dead ganger, watching the two Agents at a clearer angle now. They’re definitely Militech. Of course it’s just your luck to get caught up in a hush-hush corporate warehouse. 

The scope on your baby dances, keeping your hands steady the nearest agent's neck is in between the neon pink crosshairs of your pistol. Just as you’re about to pull the trigger a sudden voice from inside the building makes you jump. 

“Out in five! Suit up!” You’re suddenly speeding to come up with a new plan when the two agents, who were previously standing around like a couple of fucking scarecrows, were moving to the truck parked just in front of them. The heavily armoured guard heads to the armoured truck’s driver side, the other says something you can't make out as he suddenly turns in your direction and begins walking. 

Holy fuck, you really needed to get cyberware in your ears.

You step back, all the way to the near back of the building as the agent rounds the corner and gives the dead body a lazy push with his combat boot. His shoulders shake like he's laughing before he turns to face the body, unzipping his pants. A fine stream of liquid confirms your suspicions that he is in fact pissing on the dead man. You make a face, real classy.

Nonetheless, a perfect opportunity. You move with haste, across the gravelled ground. You’re not sure if the sound of his own piss is making him go deaf, but you’re sure you’re making a bunch of noise. You reach up and around his neck in one swift movement, the synthetic muscles under your skin making it easy to pull back and crack his neck with a satisfying sound. You lower him down and drag him back in one swift motion. 

You’re faintly aware of the gentle orange glow your eyes cast on your cheeks. A glance up tells you no one’s been alarmed, no one’s moving. 

You decide to leave the guy in the truck alone, you were here for the weapon, not for them. Stepping over the bodies, you switch from infrared back to Low Lite. You duck behind the many crates, watching the agent inside pace leisurely, his trigger finger lax. You move slowly, following the information given by Royce. It should be somewhere back. 

The Militech agent is as good as deaf as you hack into his operating system, temporarily deafening him. You think he’ll notice, but it doesn’t stop you from doing it. True enough, when the hack uploads, he’s on guard, whipping around with his gun pointed at nothing. You take this opportunity to crouch past, slipping under the cover of the stairs before making it past the sliding doors and to the back store room. 

It's dark, but a blink of your eyes brings it to clarity. You sigh, what the fuck was all this? You stand up, eyes racing past the stacks and stacks of cases holding weapons. How the fuck were you going to get the weapon quick enough? 

You swear, holstering your gun and pacing in front of the shelves, eyes running over all the tiny little metal plates with gun names on the cases. It’s a good three minutes later when you find the Pepper Zepper right next to a case containing your gun. Well, the last version anyways. You reach to grab it but the sound of the door sliding open catches your ears. Your hand whips to your gun but the guard’s beat you to it, gripping your wrist and pressing hard enough to nearly snap it. 

“What fucking sewer did you crawl out of?” He clearly thinks you’re working for another corp, but all that talking gives you enough time to whip your free elbow around to hit him square, where his jaw should’ve been. Your bone hits the metal of his helmet, but the darned thing rattles his brain hard enough to stun and he lets out a pained grunt. 

Absolutely fucking dazzled, this kid. You find yourself thinking as you twist around, feeling your wrist pop and crack out of place. Thank God for your Pain Editor, doing a mighty fine job of dulling that pain. 

Your good hand reached again for your gun, but something hard whips you across the nose, you’re sure something cracked. Sure enough, you come to a couple steps back with blood flowing from your nose. 

The guard’s scrambling for his trigger, but you tackle him before he can point at you. He doesn't fall, given the fact he's a good head taller than you, but it catches him off guard and he stumbles back, you hook your leg around his and pull, his knees buckle and his helmet crashes against the concrete floor. You straddle him, taking that moment where he groans in pain to your advantage and you take out your gun and whip it against his helmet. The metal thing clangs, and you bring your gun back down before his head has even bounced off the floor. You repeat this over and over till the visor cracks and the sharp fragments pierce his face when you bring your gun down again. His screams come out in mangled, wet sounds as you bring your gun down over and over and over.

By the time you’re done, his body is limp and your hand comes back dripping to the elbow in blood. A couple of wires and cyberware has come loose from his crushed face and hands off the barrel of your gun. With a jerk of your hand, the wires go flying and blood splatters the ground. 

You hold your breath, trying to hear for the rest. When you hear no movement, you scramble off him, holstering the gun and grabbing the case with your good hand. Fucking Royce.

You push open a window, heaving yourself out. Fucking hell, your wrist was pulsing with eye-watering pain. A trip to your fucking ripperdoc was in check. You take your pre-planned route out to where your car was parked. In the middle of residential areas that looked close to blown to smithereens. Typical Combat Zone scenery.

You readjust the case against your hip, panting. Fucking hell this was heavy. Your boots crush the gravel under you none too silently.

-

You managed to relocate your wrist, the sharp pain when you move it tells you it’s still very much broken, but at least usable now. You ponder the thought of calling Royce through the Holo, but decide against it. Instead sending a little message.

‘Got the weapon.’

You lean into your car, driving out of the Combat Zone relatively unscathed. You had this bad boy to thank, your darling car that definitely sped the process of getting in and out of the hell hole.

You were a new solo, as the people in Night City called them. You came from Serbia, had a good rep there till an old pal of yours fucked you up. Had to restart somewhere and heard Night City was about as corrupt as they came. You had some contacts back in Serbia who still trusted you, because of business or affection you weren’t sure, and people here in NC knew you’d be coming in with some kind of rep, not some talentless nobody who came here looking for fame but would end up dead in the streets by the following week.

Sharp pain at your wrist makes you think your bone’s poking at your own skin, and the blood has long since dried. You would’ve wiped it off, but you’d just be scratching at your skin. Your holo rings just as you pull into Night CIty. 

Unknown number.

You receive it with caution. 

“Who the fuck are you?” The pain is spreading now, up to your elbow. 

Whoever’s on the other end laugh, and you’re not sure if its the Holo or his voice that sounds mechanical. “I’m sending the detes, be there.” And with that, he hangs up.

-

Dum Dum wasn’t too fond of being treated like Royce’s lapdog, running left and right at his command but he had to do it, for now at least. He stood at the meeting point, a place not too far from their hideout, in a vast parking lot known for being on Maelstorm turf. 

Get the gun, delta. Easy fuckin’ errand. 

He was with two of his men, to be honest, he didn’t really know their names. He just likened them to their gear. So essentially, Metalhead on the left and Ten-eyes on the right. 

The brick wall behind him scratched into what was left of his skin, but even that was barely feelable. Fuckin’ hell, his hands were getting antsy, twitching, the cogs in his cyberware were creaking in his ears. He reached down for his inhaler, inhaling the lace in a swift pump and letting the smoke fizzle out of his parted lips. Fuckin’ solo was taking her sweet time. 

Just as he’s about to take another hit, a low-riding sports car comes into view. He would’ve raised a brow if he had the mental capability to control that part of his body all drugged up. He doubted Royce when he hired a no-name solo to enter the Combat Zone with no crew. But Royce insisted she was cheap and hard (shocking in itself, he’d never heard Royce speak ‘kindly’ of anyone). But now this no-name was rolling up in a fuckin’ electric green sports car in Night fucking City. She either had the guns to back it up or was a dumb fuckin’ cunt. 

“The fuck’s this gonk rolling up in?” Ten-eyes makes an offhand comment and Metalhead snickers. Red eyes trained on the car, watching as the car door lifts up and a bloody female comes out, carrying a clean silver case in one hand. 

Dum Dum’s red ‘eyes’ give her a once over, combat boots, heavy, military-grade pants, a tank top and gloves. She chucks a heavy coat into the car, the door shutting behind her as she takes a step towards them. Well, isn’t she all doughed up. 

She keeps quiet, seemingly waiting for one of them to say something. Her eyes flicker between the three of them, eyes catching the street light and shine briefly. She’s got fashion optics in, glittering in the light like a bug. 

“Ah, shit, ‘bout time your bennie ass showed up,” Dum Dum pushes himself off the wall, as Metalhead snickers again. What’s so fuckin funny? He ignores it entirely, giving the out-of-town solo a look. 

Her fleshy lips curl over her teeth, unmodded, ‘ganic, white teeth. “Was a little busy getting my shit rocked,” she joked, gesturing to the blood that’s dried under her nose. It looks like she tried to wipe it off but it just dried to a faint red over her skin. Dum Dum rolls his shoulders, fingers itchin’ for another hit. 

“Seein’ that crystal clear,” he ends his sentence there. Watching as she fidgets her grip on the case, his gaze switches to her wrist. Swollen, bruised and limp. Totally fucked. 

“She’s got the face of a joytoy, aye?” Ten-eyes mumbles. Metalhead barks out in laughter for the third time that night. The bloodied female in front of him tilts her head slightly, a miniscule movement but his optics catch it. She must not know what the fuck they were saying, bet she didn’t know a lick of NC slang. Organic and stupid, Royce really hit the jack pot didn’t he? 

“That Zepper?” Dum Dum nods to the case she’s holding. She gives him a smile, nothing malicious or condescending behind it, something rare as hell in NC, and a fucking obvious sign she isn’t from round here. 

“Sure is,” She paces forward a few steps, her smooth flesh shining under the streetlight, way too smooth. Where were all her mods at? Ain’t no way he’s believing she waltzed in and out of the Combat Zone with no mods other than her glitterin’ eyes.

She passes him the case and he takes it and it clicks open with a hiss. 

“Could be the next BD star if she ditched the solo act.” Metalhead tosses the idea back to Ten-eyes, and the latter laughs. 

The gun is in top condition, all eight barrels and not a single scratch. Straight out of Combat Zone too. Looks like she wasn’t a joke. 

“Preem, real fucking preem.” Eight individual barrels, all 6 inch, real fucking pretty. A beauty. Sleek purple and black, newest version - not even on the fucking market. He closed the case and looked back at her. Real pretty fuckin’ gun, sure…

She stands with her head high in front of her, fists caked with blood. As if she wasn’t standing on Maelstorm turf, with three borgs right in front of her. She had guts, he’d give her that. He takes a step away, pulling Royce up on the holo. 

-

You keep your nerves in check, thankful for the stim you took. By god, your nerves would’ve been so much worse if you weren’t drugged up right now. 

The two Maelstormers size you up, red eyes flickering in the night. You don’t want to make eye contact with them, so you stare at the Maelstormer with his back turned, probably talking to Royce right now. 

He looks over his shoulder, and at first you think he’s doing it cause he’s checking to see if you’re still there. But then he looks at you expectantly, and it clicks in your head faster than you expect that he’s probably waiting for your name. 

“Candy,” Your handle gets a look from him, whether good or bad you don’t know. The maelstorms in front of you snicker as the other turns away from you once again. They whisper something about joytoys, you have a faint idea of what it might mean but you can’t find it in your doped out self to be angry. Back in Serbia you were Candy, in NC you were Candy. You wouldn’t be handing out your name to strangers anytime soon. 

You’re snapped out of your thoughts when Dum Dum (you found out his name with a quick scan) turns back to you, nodding as if to dismiss you. “Royce’ll send the stack over.” And with that his metallic cogs in his throat hissed something out at his boys and the three of them disappeared into the alleyway, not touched by the streetlights. You blinked, a little shocked at how quick it was, but ultimately accepted it and drove back to your place. 

-

You really lucked out with your apartment, it’s at the outskirts of a corpo district, real close to the moderate zones. Plus, you took a visit to your ripperdoc, fixed your hand right back up. A couple staples and a stim filled with antibiotics, nutrients and whatnots and this shit would heal over and it’d be like you’d never broken your wrist in the first place. Give it up for technology.

You lounge in your living room, it’s a small place, meant for one person. You specifically requested for an apartment without a kitchen, it would just eat up space that you wouldn’t use anyways. So you got a studio apartment of sorts, a living room, bedroom and a humble bathroom. 

You let your eyes close, almost dipping into slumber when you received a message from the Maelstormer. 

‘Got a gig, meet at Totentaz.’ 

You sigh, real fucking nice of them to just assume you’d take it up. 

-

You stare at yourself in your mirror, a sudden urge to go back and change. You knew Totentaz was where the Maelstorm and cyber junkies hung out, stimmed up to their necks. But you didn’t really have much cyberjunkie clothes. In fact, all your clothes fall quite cleanly into what some may call high fashion, you’re sure that most would call it stuck up though. 

Your dark makeup makes you look less in pain and much more alive. The PVC bustier clings onto your chest with what seems to be sheer will alone and your matching PVC skirt hugs your skin. You sigh, god, why Maelstormers? You wouldn’t feel this awkward walking into Tyger Claw territory looking like this. You push such thoughts aside, you don't have time to change and reach on time. So you suck it up, throw your coat over your shoulders and slip on your heels. 

-

Standing in front of the bouncer, you wished you had changed. His red eyes give you a look, and even you can tell he’s looking at you like you’ve gotten lost and ended up here. 

“This a joke?” It's almost laughable how confused he seems. 

“I’m Royce’s contact, here for a gig,” the bouncer doesn’t say anything, and kind of just stares out into the wall behind you before blinking back to consciousness. 

“Shit, seems like your gonk ass really has business here,” he laughs to himself, stepping aside to let you pass. You almost smile at him, but remember this isn’t the city for friendly behaviour. So you brush past him and make your way to the archaic fucking elevator. 

A maelstormer doped out his mind is swaying in front of the metal doors. Waiting for the elevator to move, but you don’t think he’d noticed he’d forgotten to press the button. So you do it for him. He spends the ride up mumbling to himself, fingers twitching as his head leans against the metal sides. You give him a cautious glance, what kind of drugs did this crazy take?

His mumbles get drowned out by the bone rattling bass that grows in volume as you get closer to the club. The Maelstormer seems to not notice the doors have opened, because when you leave he’s still swaying in the elevator, twitching like he’s got the chills. 

You shake your head, the drugs in this city were crazy. Dirty and hard. Nothing like the ones you were used to; you were used to clean and hard hitting drugs, the shit that wouldn’t fuck with your OS. Shit like Delt-G or Black Madonna back in Serbia, none of this Black Lace bullshit. 

You round the corner, the music is loud now and you’re sure you’re going to get tinnitus if you stay here. The lights are all red, and you find it kind of ironic. Red eyes, red lights, they really had a theme going, didn’t they? 

Speaking of which, red eyes watch you like little cameras as you make your way to the Maelstormers in front of the large metal doors. You figured, you’d need to be doped up to talk to them again, so you used a dorph inhaler in your car before coming up here. Now, seeing their eyes track your moves like sharks, you’re thankful you used it. 

You’re almost relieved when you see a familiar face, and he’s quick to greet you. 

“There you are, no bloody ass nose this time, huh?” His voice is guttural, an (you hate to admit it) alluring mix of metal and human. You’re sure if you lean close enough you’d hear the gears in his throat turn with every sound he made. You smile at his words, and try your hardest to not look at the red eyes to your left and right.

“No, not today, pretty,” you say, almost too naturally. You catch your mistake the second it comes out of your mouth and your breath catches in your throat, old habits die hard and calling a maelstormer pretty was probably a good way to get a bloody nose. Thankfully, they all seem to take it as a joke. Mechanical laughter surrounds you, and the one sitting in a chair looks up at Dum Dum. 

“‘Ganic girls, huh?” You don’t really get it, but Dum Dum laughs at it with the same maliciousness. He’s not out of place with these guys. Like a pack of starved wolves. You suddenly feel underdressed as one of the red-eyed junkies stares at you with his hand inching to his crotch. Your eyes snap to him, he’s got spikes out his skull and the lower half of his jaw missing, replaced with what you can only liken to a hose. 

You fall back into your old habits quick, gaze freezing over. Your fingers itching for some fucking lead under. 

“Shit, no need to get all icy,” the Maelstormer sitting jokes, clearly noticing your change in demeanour. You blink, tearing your gaze away from the hose-face. 

“It’s dark, hard to see,” your quick excuse is brushed off by Dum Dum as he gestures for you to follow him past the metal doors. You walk past, ignoring the sound coming from hose-boy on your left. Sounding awfully similar to the steam from trains. You can quite literally feel your eyes shake in their sockets at the intensity of the bass vibrating to where you’re standing at. You inch closer to Dum Dum, not wanting your voice to be drowned out in the sound of this club. 

“Pretty noisy, you like this shit?” You don't know what it is about him, but you find it easy to poke fun and joke around with him. His red eyes shine against your face as he turns to you. He laughs, it’s forced and sarcastic. 

“If Royce heard you, he’d have you zeroed,” He looks past you, to the crowd of bodies behind you. You turn to look, the colours are more intense and there are so many people you have to squint to make them out. It smells of puke, alcohol and drugs. Not to mention the sweat and oil. “Tinnitus, apple of his eye.” He says, reaching past you to gesture to the group, but you find yourself staring at his modded arms instead. 

He notices. 

“Tinnitus, real ironic,” you laugh, catching yourself quickly. He resumes his slow saunter across the upper floors. Your eyes catch a few, unmodded individuals. 

“You guys don’t have a mod requirement to get in?” You push for small talk again, warming up to this guy. He looks over his shoulder and lets out a mechanical chortle. 

“You got in, didn’t you?” You fake an offended expression at his words, hurrying after him down the stairs. 

“Hey, I have a ton of mods, you just can’t see them,” you frown at the back of his head. 

“Wouldn’t have guessed it,” he turns to gesture to you, “with you looking like you’re ready to kiss corp ass, real fuckin’ ganic.” You hurry after him, staying by his side lest his voice be lost in this noise.

“The fucks ganic? That some kind of slang?” Her words are met with another mechanical laugh.

“This is real preem, how’d you make it a night in this city?” His red eyes scan the club, blending in with the real lights and heavy smog. “You look fresh out the womb, aint a fucking hair on your skin been touched.” 

“Unmodded?” 

“Ahhh, you got it,” you scowl at his mocking tone. 

Before you know it, you’re heading up another set of stairs. “But I’m not,” you remind him, but he just rolls his shoulders. 

“Don’t matter, you look ganic, you’re ganic.” You frown, but keep quiet anyways. Up the stairs you can see the back of Royce’s head. Just as you’re about to walk past Dum Dum he leans in a little closer, prompting you to stop and looking into his spider eyes. “And a lil’ tip, don’t go ‘round asking what’s this and that, making you look like a real fuckin’ bennie,” he flashes you a grin, modded teeth, what did you expect. You don’t ask him what bennie means and nod, saying a little ‘thank you’ before walking round the corner. 

Royce turns to you, and greets you with your real name. Your expression hardens and you wish he didn’t even know it. Dum Dum walks round the corner, standing behind you. Royce is lax, hands at the back of the couch, legs splayed out and discarded inhalers by his feet. 

“Park it,” his voice is gruff, but surprisingly higher pitched than you remembered. You sit down on the couch, legs crossing naturally. 

Royce laughs, “looking like a real fucking solo, aren’t you?” He nods to your get up and you shrug.

“Not dressed to fight,” 

“Fucking clearly, fuck,” you’re amazed by his range in vocabulary. There's a bunch of his men around, lingering here and there but none of them are sitting with him. He reaches for a glass of yellow liquid, looking a hell of a lot like piss.

“Send ‘er the detes,” with his words, a red sea of text fills your vision.

**Author's Note:**

> i literally struggled sm with the slang and dum dum is such a hard character for me to write but i hope i didnt butcher him too much. i just want a dum dum romance route pls thats all im asking for im desperate.


End file.
